


Perhaps A Bit Not Good

by ShinigamiAnateria (ShinigamiKnox)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Hints of Sheriarty, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Palace John Watson, Mind Palace John gets a little mean, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock likes to be watched, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's got some repressed kinks, Some verbal humiliation, Voyeurism, like one line
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9419180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiKnox/pseuds/ShinigamiAnateria
Summary: Sherlock finds his perfect match: himself. Well, that was until Doctor John Watson became an inconvenient disruption.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was _supposed_ to be a simple story about Sherlock loving himself more than anyone else but John happened and John got to be a little more cruel than I thought towards the end of this chapter. Whoops.  
>  Also, Mycroft may have a file but Sherlock has an entire wing in his mind palace for out-of-the-ordinary sex-related matters.

People assumed. People assumed so bloody much. Then again, Sherlock gave them no other obvious indicators to say one way or the other. He didn’t deny it when people assumed he was asexual and celibate. Sex wasn’t exactly a strong desire much of the time, not when a case took precedence or some experiment needed completing. But late at night, when Sherlock laid awake too lazy to pick up his violin but too awake to stare at the ceiling in hopes of sleep claiming him, his hands would wander and his mind would drift.

His mind palace had many uses, memory being the primary function. Vivid imagination, fantasies as others would say, was just a perk. When he let his mind wander, he found himself in that one hallway he’d discovered in his teenaged years, like every other boy his age. The room grew in personality as Sherlock spent more time within the room while he had the time and interest. Lately, upon moving into 221b with John, it had become disused and dusty which made it all the more thrilling to reopen that door.

Initially, the opposing person had no face, no discernible features. Sherlock revelled in just the sensation of his hand on his body. He’d since realised the traits he found appealing and found them represented in the body pressed against his own in that room of his mind palace. In reality, his hand slipped down under the sheets, into his pants, and stroked his stirring length slowly.

He had little experience in this kind of situation with another being. He found it unappealing to be with someone so ordinary, so that didn’t leave many options. Only a handful of people had piqued his interest intellectually, none of which piqued his sexual interest, as closely tied as they may have been. So who did one imagine when no one seemed to rise to unrealistically high standards?

Sherlock imagined how the silky strands would feel tangled around his fingers as he tugged his partner’s hair to expose his neck. The skin would be hot and soft but pulled taut. Gentle kisses would gradually turn into bites that would mark the pale skin which he would soothe with more gentle kisses.

The hand that wasn’t stroking his cock slid up to his own neck, fingertips trailing up his jawline and into his hair to just grasp. A quiet moan escaped before he bit down on his lip.

Trailing kisses back up his partner’s neck, he took their bottom lip between his teeth and sucked. Pale green-blue eyes met his own, irises eclipsed by dilated pupils. Lips pressed against his own, the tip of a tongue pushing into his mouth. The slide of his partner’s warm tongue along his own brought about another soft, bitten off moan. His imagination decided he would be in the pyjamas he was currently dressed in while his partner had his favourite dress trousers on and the strikingly black shirt he loved. The sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, exposing his delicate-looking but strong wrists.

Bringing both hands to caress each sharp, slightly coloured cheekbone for just a moment, he let them drop and begin pulling open buttons. He could feel hands on his lower back, holding him while soft lips nipped at his neck. The hands dropped lower and tightened against his arse.

“Sherlock..” Even he had to admit the low tone of his own voice was arousing, especially with _that_ erotic edge. It took him a few moments to get the buttons undone and the shirt pulled off but when he did, he went straight for his chest, locking his mouth around a nipple. His partner responded nicely, sensitive as usual.

In his bed, his own hand dropped down from his hair and ran over his chest slowly. He arched into his hand, thumb stroking the sensitive skin almost to the point of chaffing before wetting his finger and thumb to simulate a warm, wet mouth.

In his mind palace, he slid his long fingers into his partner’s hair and pushed the head downwards. The man gave in and fell to his knees, his hands framing Sherlock’s sides quite nicely. His pyjama shirt was pulled up and soft, wet kisses peppered his abdomen down to the low waistband of his pyjama bottoms. His shirt fell back down as the man moved to the front of his bottoms. His mouthed Sherlock through the thin material as Sherlock tightened his hold on the man’s hair.

“Christ, you’re so _good_ with your mouth,” Sherlock murmured.

“Mmh,” the look-alike hummed in acknowledgement.

“Certainly looks like it,” an image of John in his soft-looking oatmeal coloured jumper and jeans appeared at the door that was now open to the room. A dim light outlined his form as he leaned against the doorframe. Well, this was an interesting development. “You like to be watched. Don’t let me intrude.” John was suddenly sitting in a comfortable looking chair by the door and rolling up his sleeves.

Sherlock returned his attention to the lips and teeth pulling his bottoms down and the pale green-blue eyes meeting his own. Details, details made it feel electric. The dilated pupils, the light flush of his partner, the sweat beginning to dot his skin, the smell of sex beginning to invade his senses.

In his bed, Sherlock paused to grab the lubricant in his drawer. He let it warm in his hand then slid himself into his warm fist with a pleased shiver. His free hand pulled strands of dark hair in between his fingers and closed.

Back in that room, he slid both hands into the dark curls and met John’s eyes as the hot mouth slid down his length.

“Fuck…fuck,” Sherlock broke eye contact to look down, watching full lips swallow him down. At the same time, he could imagine the heady taste on his tongue. Fingers dipped down, in both his mind palace and in reality, and stroked against his anus. “Jesus,” he moaned with another shiver.

He covered his left middle and index finger with more lubricant and returned to stroking himself with both hands. His fingertip dipped in as his partner did the same. God, wouldn’t be long now.

Sherlock didn’t take long to get to the second finger, working himself open carefully but quickly. He had a fleeting thought about investing in some…equipment but as his index finger brushed against his prostate, he let the thought fade in favour of the pleasure.

“Hm, he knows what he’s doing. Then again, he should. He’s you, after all,” John murmured from his chair. “Because, who else would you imagine fucking? Who else comes even close to your impossible standards?” John teased. “Question, do you yell your own name when I’m not home? Brings a whole new meaning to ‘self-love,’ you narcissistic bastard.” John grinned.

“Would you rather I imagined you?”

“You are. Just not in the conventional way. You can’t do anything conventionally.”

Sherlock pushed the man on his knees onto his back and straddled his lap. He wiggled out of his jacket and shirt as Sherlock kicked his bottoms completely off then peeled his partner’s trousers off.

“Is this because I told you to go fuck yourself?” John commented.

“Am I going to be subject to this the entire time I’m fucking myself?” Sherlock complained. His slight smile took away any venom he’d intended.

“You like it,” John told him. “Just like you enjoy being watched.”

“By you,” Sherlock murmured.

“Hmm?”

“I enjoy being watched _by you_.” Sherlock sunk down onto his partner’s cock slowly.

His hand tightened around his cock, tight hold emulating that of sinking into another body. His fingers crooked just the right way to rub himself in such a way to make himself writhe. The sheets underneath him growing damp as he perspired.

“Which do you like better?” John tilted his head curiously. “Maybe that’s why you like this better. You can’t have both outside of this place.”

“That’s not true. Threesome would allow me both.”

“Yeah, but finding one person, let alone two, to fill your impossible standards would be…impossible.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes followed by a moan. “You’re distracting. Don’t psychoanalyse me, not now.” He pushed his partner’s sweaty fringe back before leaning down to press a biting kiss to the parted lips.

“Then stop analysing yourself.”

Hips pressed up against him, his companion thrusting up in a slow, steady, deep rhythm. He leaned back up, his back arching as he pressed down. “Besides. Involving other people? Things get messy.”

“Oh, so it’s because you can’t get hurt here. You fall for someone else, you get hurt. Just like everyone else.”

“Ordinary is so boring. Maybe I’m just that narcissistic.” Sherlock bent down and kissed (more like ‘tongued’) his partner as if to prove his point. “Hmm?” He pet the dark locks affectionately and lowered his mouth to his jawline to bite and nuzzle the taut skin.

“You sound like someone else we know.”

Sherlock hummed against his partner’s clavicle, causing him to arch up into Sherlock’s mouth. “He was fun to imagine sometimes,” Sherlock replied honestly. What use was it lying to his own subconscious? “That was, until I had to lock him up.”

John uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Narcissistic arse.”

“So you’ve said.”

“You’re getting bored. You’re going in circles.”

“You’re _distracting_ me,” Sherlock growled and attempted to turn his undivided attention to the body below him. In his bed, he growled softly at his fingers not being enough.

“It’s almost enough to make you wish I’d walk in and fuck you,” John began walking around the two men on the floor. Sherlock’s partner slid warm hands along his thighs and gripped his waist in a bruising hold.

“Go away,” Sherlock groaned, half in irritation, half in pleasure.

“You don’t want me to. Especially not through that door.” John pointed to the one exactly opposite the one John entered through.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John shrugged. “So many secrets held in this place, how do you keep them all in order?”

“ _You_ already know what’s behind that door. _John_ does not, will never know.”

“Does _she_ have a room too?”

“You already know that, too.”

“I’d rather hear you say it.”

“John wouldn’t tease this much.”

“I would if I knew you got off on it.”

“God…” Sherlock dug his fingertips into the flesh beneath him. He grabbed at the wrist on his left hip and tugged it to his cock. His partner complied without hesitation and began stroking his length. John continued his infuriating circle around them, made more infuriating by the fact he wasn’t _watching_ anymore.

“You get off on a lot of things. Maybe that’s what you’re afraid of. If someone knew half of what was down here…” John let the statement fade. “Really, Sherlock. You make yourself mad with desire until you’re forced to indulge. Oh, but if you don’t think about it, it’ll go away!” John laughed sarcastically. “How’d that work out?”

“It didn’t.” Sherlock watched him circle once more. Step followed by slow step. “Doesn’t matter. As long as it doesn’t leave here, it doesn’t matter,” he said dismissively.

“Sure,” John shrugged. “It’s not like you wouldn’t _jump_ at the chance outside of here. You have _self-control_ , after all.” He circled once again. “He doesn’t talk much. It’s a wonder he doesn’t say the things you want to hear. Then again, you don’t want to see yourself saying those things. No fun in that. Boring. You could listen to your own voice degrading you, you do, but someone else doing it, that’s what you crave. You _want_ someone to read you like you read them. All of those appalling quirks of yours, you want someone to point them out.”

“You.”

“Me, Lestrade, even Moriarty would do. Honestly, do you love yourself so little? Ah, no, that’s not _quite_ true, is it? Afterwards, you want comfort, assurance. ‘You’re not so abnormal. You’re _ordinary_.’ You want to hear you’re not as odd as you think you are, at least in this context. Sex is illogical.”

Sherlock wanted to argue. Sex made sense as a biological imperative, as a reward pathway in his case. But to want the things he did, _that_ made little sense.

“Half the time, even _you_ don’t know what you want. Better hurry it up. Not only are you getting bored, it’s getting late,” John reminded him. “I’ll be home soon.”

Sherlock looked over to meet that mischievous grin and bright eyes.

“Wouldn’t want me to walk through your _open_ door…or maybe you would. Who leaves their bedroom door open when they masturbate? You’re just asking to be caught. Do you think I’d feel pity seeing such a desperate, wanton look? I’d feel compelled to indulge you? Hm, no. You wouldn’t want that. You’d want me frozen in shock at the door, watching you writhe. Ah, was that the front door?”

Sherlock could feel his heart pounding as a tense warmth grew in the pit of his stomach and groin. Ah, just a little more.

“If that was the door, there’s no way to clean up in time,” John said with a knowing sigh. “You really should have closed your door. You smell like sex. It won’t be hard to tell, even with just a glance in your room.”

Heavy footfalls on the stairs threatened to drag him completely out of his fantasy. Definitely John.

“Go on,” mind palace John goaded. “Or should I say ‘come on.’ For me.” He merely touched the sweat-slicked back of Sherlock’s neck and his eyes fluttered closed as he came on his chest and stomach. In the background of his racing heart, he heard John reach the squeaky step.

Tempted to not move, to enjoy his afterglow and hope John didn’t go looking for him, he took a few deep, almost gasping breaths. Logic began seeping back into his lethargic mind and he groped for something to clean himself off with. That done, he shoved his sweaty, overheated but cooling, body under the stifling sheets and made himself relax as though he’d been sleeping this entire time. He heard footsteps in the kitchen for a couple minutes before they stopped in his doorway. Sherlock focused on keeping his breathing even and deep. He couldn’t do anything about the smell but hope John had the mercy to forget.

Each breath brought him closer to unconsciousness. He was sated so his body decided he needed sleep to replenish the energy spent. Ridiculous, Sherlock almost huffed.


End file.
